


Jealousy

by simplyspn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF John, Bottom Sherlock, Established Relationship, Jealous John, M/M, Possessive John, Rimming, Slight Violence, Top John, sofa sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyspn/pseuds/simplyspn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to fake a date with another man for a case, even though John doesn't approve. When John realises the date isn't as 'fake' as Sherlock led him to believe, he takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

“What the _hell_ do you mean you’re going on a _date_ with Nick?”

 

John’s voice emanated through the flat. Sherlock could practically hear Mrs. Hudson fluttering about downstairs, complaining about the neighbours’ opinions of them. Sherlock couldn’t stifle the roll of his eyes as he pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin, looking at his partner.

 

“Yes, John. A date. With Nick. He is the only one who has seen Dickerson and has an established relationship with him, so I can get close enough to him to swipe one of his cigars and prove that the ash from his cigar is the same as the ash found on the body from the museum.”

 

John knew Sherlock had a _type_. Sherlock was attracted to buff men. Men with muscle that could be confrontational when the situation called for it. Men that were at least of average intelligence and had some sort of authority. Nick, being an ex-army captain like himself and having biceps that would put some professional weightlifters to shame, met all of Sherlock’s criteria.

 

John did not like this at all.

 

“Doesn’t he have a _picture_ he can show you? Why does it have to be a date? You do remember you’re already in a committed relationship, correct?”

 

John was practically growling. Sherlock smirked. In some ways, it was fun getting John all worked up like this, but tonight he knew it would just get in the way of his case.

 

“A picture won’t help me get close to him, John. It’s a fake date. Would you relax?” He stood from his armchair, shuffling down the hall to their shared bedroom. John resisted the urge to follow. He just needed to be mad for a while. How dare Sherlock do this! This was something that should have been discussed, as a couple, especially considering Sherlock’s knowledge of Mary’s affair with David.

 

The soldier was a bit insecure.

 

And he actually _cared about_ this relationship.

 

When Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, it sent an entirely new rage through the doctor. Sherlock stood before him in one of his classic suits – and the purple shirt. The purple shirt that John had so adamantly tried to make Sherlock realise he looked delectable in. He had spent many nights peeling that shirt off of pale flesh, telling him that the silky material and the colour made him look so, so _sexy._

 

And he was wearing it. On a date. With another man.

 

“That? _That_ is what you’re wearing?”  


Sherlock stared. He didn’t see the issue. John said he looked good in it. Wasn’t he supposed to look good if he was going on a date? What was the problem? He was still new to relationships, and didn’t quite understand the dynamic. He didn’t understand why John’s cheeks were turning red, and why his jaw was clenched.

 

“Yes. And I’m late. Goodbye.”

 

With that, Sherlock left the flat.

 

oOo

 

John watched out the window as Sherlock climbed into Nick’s car, seemingly undisturbed that he had just equally betrayed and angered John at the same time. Yes, Sherlock wasn’t familiar with relationships, but one should know not to go on a date with someone else when one is _already in a relationship_. Bloody hell, primary school children knew that much!

 

The doctor’s fist curled, and he found himself having to massage out the tension in his left hand.

 

This was for a case, he tried to remind himself. It was a fake date, right? Right? But when did Sherlock ever _not_ get carried away when it came to doing something for a case – he faked his death, had a funeral, and disappeared for two years!

 

“Christ…” the word passed his lips into the empty sitting room. There was a very good chance Sherlock would take this too far. The image of Sherlock’s lips pressed against someone else’s – against Nick’s – filled his mind. No. That was unacceptable. He didn’t care if this was for a case or not. There were surely other ways to solve this case without putting his bloody relationship on the line.

 

John didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember putting on his coat or his shoes. He sure as hell didn’t remember grabbing his gun and hailing a cab and ending up at the bar Sherlock had mentioned. But here he was, his eyes already fixed on Sherlock and Nick.

 

Sherlock was laughing. His head tilted to the side, dark curls spilling over his face, long neck in full view. Nick’s hand was on his, stroking Sherlock’s wrist. John thought he would combust from the fire raging within him. Sherlock was enjoying this. He was actually liking the attention from someone other than him.

 

John should teach him a lesson, really. He should go home and pack up all of his things so when Sherlock got home maybe _then_ he would realise the seriousness of what he had done. But John’s eyes landed on another man. A man that was less than three metres away from Sherlock and his date. Something inside him screamed that it was Dickerson, but Sherlock and Nick were both too entranced by each other to notice.

 

He couldn’t leave.

 

No matter how angry and hurt he was, he couldn’t let Sherlock get hurt.

 

He had come down here to bring Sherlock home, but with Dickerson standing so close, there was too much of a chance that John would inadvertently draw attention to them and Dickerson would put a target on Sherlock. John loved Sherlock – he didn’t want anything to happen to him. He just wanted him to come home, and be his. Only his.

 

Nick on the other hand – John didn’t mind if something happened to Nick. Not now, anyway.

 

John shifted, heading in the direction of the bar. His eyes stayed fixed on Dickerson as he ordered a pint. He was barely halfway through when he saw the flash of metal tucked into his waistband as the man turned. In an instant, John’s hand was on his gun, shifting off the safety. He kept it concealed in his pocket for now. Until the time was right and civilians were in eminent danger.

 

Dickerson was slowly approaching Sherlock’s table, dancing his way from person to person toward his destination.

 

John’s eyes fell to his love once more, only to find Nick whispering something in his ear, and Sherlock practically _giggling_ in response.

 

Rage gave way to outright fury. He slammed his half-empty glass down on the bar, garnering the attention of the barman. John swallowed back his urge to scream at the innocent bystander before speaking. “You are going to want to call Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Tell him Watson called for him. And tell him to bring an ambulance.” The man hesitated, but when he saw John pull out his gun and head toward the crowd, he practically leapt for the phone.

 

oOo

 

John walked past Sherlock’s table. He was fairly sure that he had gone unnoticed by the man he had been living with for the past six years, and went straight to Dickerson. The man stood taller than him, but only slightly. John was easily able to reach up and grab the pressure point on his neck between his thumb and forefinger, making the criminal shudder and turn to see who his assailant was.

 

John kept his voice low, trying desperately not to startle the other patrons. “You are going to give me one of your cigars, and you are going to come outside with me and wait for the Yard to arrive. Do I make myself clear?”

 

The man scoffed and John felt the cold hardness of the barrel of a gun pressed against his ribs.

 

“What would I do that?”

 

John reapplied pressure, and the man sank a few inches.

 

“Because I am having an exceptionally bad night, seeing as my boyfriend is on a date with someone that _isn’t me_ in an attempt to catch you. I really don’t want to have to make it worse by kicking your arse.”

 

The man adjusted his grip on the gun, preparing to pull the trigger. John sighed. This was inconvenient.

 

He moved his hand to the side of the man’s neck, using the heel to hit his vein. The doctor’s foot moved, pulling his feet out from under him.

 

Dickerson caught himself on John’s hips, using the grip of the gun as a weapon to smash across John’s face. Blood filled his mouth, poured from his lip. His eye was already swelling, but he could see the sly, snake-like grin on Dickerson’s face. He thought he had won.

 

He heard the startled gasps of those around them as they registered what was happening – two blokes having an all-out fight with guns. John refused to fire, though. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. Not in a place filled with so many people.

 

John grabbed the back of Dickerson’s head, tangling his fingers in the jet-black hair. A knee to the groin made the criminal pliable enough that John was able to effortlessly slam his face into the ground, successfully stilling the man long enough for John to be able to get back to his feet.

 

The doctor wiped his own blood on the back of his hand and reached down, searching the now-unconscious criminal’s pocket for the oh-so-important cigars that may or may not have ruined his entire relationship. He could hear the sirens of Lestrade and his people rushing down the street – he was thankful that the barman actually listened to him and didn’t just take him as some deranged drunk. He looked at the faces that had formed a circle around them. One woman was cautiously handing him a bag of ice for his swollen and bruised eye – but Sherlock wasn’t there.

 

He knew without looking that he was still at the table. With him.

 

“’scuse me” he whispered as he pushed through the crowd to the table. The music was still blaring, which was fine by John. He needed to scream anyway. The music just gave him a cover to do so.

 

“Here’s the _fucking_ cigar that you needed so badly!” He slammed the cigar down in front of Sherlock. Sherlock jumped, registered the blood on John’s hand, then looked up. He scrambled to his feet at the sight of his battered lover.

 

“What the hell happ-“

 

“Don’t, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock looked more confused than ever. Even more so when Lestrade rushed through the door. All John did was point to the man on the floor. Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s finger, registering what had happened. His fingers fluttered up to touch the bruise that was already livid and prominent on his face.

 

“You…” He started, looking for the words. Sherlock was never at a loss for words.

 

“Yes. I did. While you were so lost on your _date_. Touching and whispering and laughing. I saw he had a gun, and I acted. And he decided to beat me with it. Any questions?

 

Sherlock’s face went hot with a blush. Oh. Now he knew what he’d done wrong. Was this another one of those times he should have talked to John first? Was this one of those things where John’s emotions were different than his own?

 

And because of that, John had gotten hurt. Not just emotionally. Physically, too.

 

Nick stood, a strong hand encompassing Sherlock’s. When he spoke, his voice was deep and scratchy. “I have a question. Why are you still here, old man? Sherlock has made his decision. It’s me. Go on home.”

 

John stiffened. Sherlock could physically see the change in demeanour in the man he was so in love with. The self-doubt flooding back into him – a man that was brave enough to join the army, doubting that he was good enough for Sherlock. Nick was still talking.

 

“And while you’re there, you might as well pack your things. I’m not comfortable with my boyfriend living with someone that so clearly pines over him.”

 

John snapped. There was only so much one human could deal with in a twenty-four hour period, and he had reached his limit. His fist wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist, pulling him back a bit. Sherlock obliged. John stepped forward, chest-to-chest with Nick.

 

“Let’s get one thing straight. He isn’t, and never will be, _your_ boyfriend. This was for a case. And it wasn’t even a date. Who the hell takes someone as great as him to a cheap pub for a bloody first date? Secondly, I’m not packing my bags. Ever. Unless I’m moving to Sussex with him. So I really, _really_ fucking suggest you sit down, shut up, and continue stuffing your face with your soggy chips while I take _my_ boyfriend home.”

 

Nick’s steely gaze faltered, but only for a moment, before a grin slithered its way across his features.

 

“And what if I don’t?”

 

“I’ve been in one fight tonight. I’ve got absolutely no problem being in another.”

 

Nick laughed, drew his fist back, and busted John in the same eye that had already been bruised, sending a searing pain through the doctor’s body that threatened to steal his consciousness. But he wouldn’t allow himself to pass out, to show this man any sign of weakness. He heard Sherlock’s cry of his name, but shook his head as a silent signal that he was alright.

 

One good punch to the throat was all it took to bring Nick to his knees.

 

John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock frantically whimpered and reached for his eye. “God, John...” John hushed him by grabbing onto his hips.

 

“No. Stop. We need to get something straight, too.”

 

Sherlock shook his head slowly, like a child knowing reprimand was on its way.

 

“When we got together, you told me you don’t share. I don’t share either. And you can’t expect me to if you won’t. You are completely mine. I don’t care what your reasoning is. I don’t care if it’s for a case. I don’t care. You. Belong. To. Me. The only one that gets to see that smile and hear that laugh, is me. I will end up in jail for murder before I let anyone else have that. Would you like it if I dated someone else, even if it was for a case?”

 

Sherlock could do nothing more than frantically shake his head, finally beginning to understand. The thought of someone else looking at John, touching John, being with John, was almost too much to bear. It brought back memories he didn’t want. Brought back pain he tried to forget – and he had put John through all of that.

 

His fingers danced around John’s bruises that seemed to be getting darker by the minute.

 

“Let’s go home,” John suggested quietly. The mood in the pub had started to return now that Lestrade had taken Dickerson into custody. Everyone was dancing or drinking, aside from Nick, who was slowly beginning to regain consciousness. John only looked at him to make sure he wasn’t looking at Sherlock.

 

oOo

 

John pushed Sherlock against the wall, using his hip to shut the door. He hadn’t had time to check if Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening. If she wasn’t, she was definitely going to be leaving to get some silence. Sherlock _squeaked_ as John’s hips brushed against his in his hurry.

 

“Let me remind you who you belong to,” his words were delicate and thick with lust, his lips hovering over the throbbing vein in Sherlock’s neck.

 

Sherlock groaned, struggling to find his ability to speak through the fog of lust that was setting on his mind. He had never remembered John being so _demanding_ before. _My Captain Watson,_ he thought, warmth settling in the pit of his belly as John’s hips rolled over his once more.

 

In an instant, John’s lips were no longer just hovering over his neck. They were latched on, sucking, biting, marking, _claiming._ Sherlock cried out in pleasure, electrical shocks of desire radiating through him, reaching every extremity. “ _John_ ” He gasped, earning him a smile.

 

John’s hand slowly slid down Sherlock’s body, causing the detective to shiver in anticipation. He didn’t keep him waiting long, before rewarding him with a palm pressed to his cock through the too-tight fabric of his trousers. Sherlock’s groan was deep and long, passing those beautiful lips in little gasps. But far too soon, John pulled his hands away.

 

“Tell me who you belong to.” He said the words with such demand, such authority, that Sherlock’s cock twitched.

 

“Y-you,” he managed to stutter out, his tongue refusing to cooperate with his brain. “I belong to you, John. Only you. God, _please.”_ He whimpered, his hips thrusting forward off the wall in search of resistance.

 

John grinned. He absolutely loved the purple shirt that he so affectionately referred to as the ‘purple shirt of sex’. But, what he loved more, was seeing Sherlock only _half_ wearing it. He leaned forward, taking one of Sherlock’s clothed nipples into his mouth, sucking and biting and teasing while he worked on unbuttoning each button far too slowly, letting his fingers graze over Sherlock’s heated, waiting skin.

 

When he unbuttoned half the buttons, he switched to the other nipple, repeating the process. By the time John had gotten all the buttons undone, and finally released his nipple, Sherlock was a gasping, panting mess. He was also breathtakingly beautiful, with two wet spots over his nipples, chest heaving too quickly, purple shirt open, revealing just enough of that gorgeous alabaster skin and dark hair below his navel to make John’s cock twitch in appreciation.

 

God, this man was a work of art.

 

And completely his.

 

“Come here,” he purred, arm outstretched. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to take his hand, shifting so their fingers were laced together. John didn’t want to wait any longer, and Sherlock had mentioned wanting to venture out of the bedroom – so he took him to the sofa.

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide when he realised what John was suggesting. He didn’t give him much time to react, because his lips came crashing into his with a desperation John didn’t even know he was capable of. Maybe he was _a bit_ more jealous than he had originally thought. His lips moved slowly, tongue tracing over Sherlock’s plump bottom lip, until he parted them and granted him access. He groaned against his lips at the taste of his love. Even after all this time, the taste of _Sherlock_ was still so surprising, still so arousing. How, exactly, did he get so lucky?

 

Sherlock had completely succumbed to the kiss, letting John in complete control. He felt John’s fingers pushing the fabric of the shirt off of his shoulders, then tugging it off his arms. Still, he didn’t pull away from his lips. He tilted his head back as John dropped to his neck, continuing his trail of painfully delicious kisses there. John’s fingers were working skilfully at his trousers, and after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock was finally free. His cock, already leaking as proof of his need for John, clung to his stomach. The detective had thought about moving his hand, stroking himself. He needed, _needed_ to get rid of some of the pressure. But John beat him to it. He gave him three teasing strokes, leaving Sherlock writhing.

 

Leaving him writhing so much that he didn’t comprehend that John had gotten off the sofa, on his knees. Didn’t comprehend that he had shifted Sherlock’s body so his legs were now draping over his shoulders. That was, until, he was greeted with the warmth of John’s tongue circling his entrance. “ _God!_ John!” He instantly reached down, fisting his hand in short, blond hair. He could _feel_ John’s lips turn into a smile against the overly-sensitive muscle.

 

John pulled back, kissing his thighs lovingly. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he said quietly, in that voice that made Sherlock feel so safe. Sherlock whimpered, pressing down, searching desperately for more as John’s lips jumped from one thigh to the next. Finally, his lips landed on the tight ring of muscle once more.

 

“ _John. More._ ” He was begging. His legs moved, circling around John’s neck, forcing him in closer. John gripped his thighs to keep his balance, the tip of his tongue flicking teasingly at the muscle before he flattened it and gave long, slow licks. He moved one hand, spreading him just slightly. The groan he received was his encouragement to continue. He glanced up at the beautiful, writhing creature that now had his legs wound so tightly around John’s neck, he could barely move. Slowly, John leaned forward again, this time letting his tongue breach him.

 

Sherlock moaned, tugging John’s hair as he cried out his name.

 

John was so painfully hard that he was sure if he didn’t get out of his trousers soon, permanent damage would be done.

 

Slowly, he pulled back, letting his teeth graze over the inside of Sherlock’s thigh until he released his hold on the doctor’s neck. John carefully undressed, revelling in the moment of Sherlock’s awe. He stroked himself a few times, stepping forward as he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

 

“Out here?” He asked quietly. All Sherlock did was nod in response. John had opened his mouth to tell him they could go anywhere he wanted, but he was cut off but those oh-so-perfect lips wrapping around his throbbing prick.

 

“ _Fuck._ ” He groaned. He brought one knee up onto the sofa, leaning forward so he was gripping the back. He was practically surrounding Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind one bit. His hands were roaming all over John’s body, feeling, _memorising._ John’s moans were almost incomprehensible. Broken syllables of Sherlock’s name combined with cries of ‘ _God yes’ ‘Don’t stop’ ‘Please…’_

 

Sherlock also knew John well enough to know when he was close, and Sherlock wanted to be fucked tonight. He wanted to be mercilessly pounded, to be reminded that he belonged to Captain Watson and no one else. He wasn’t going to let it end before he got that.

 

With a satisfying _pop_ and a smug grin, Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then licked his swollen lips. Shimmying his hips, he moved down into position, half-off the sofa. John took a moment to stare at the gorgeous gift that had been presented to him.

 

“Lube?” John asked, really not wanting to interrupt their fun to go to the bedroom in search of the bottle. Sherlock grinned and pointed toward the coffee table.

 

“Drawer. I was hoping you’d eventually shag me senseless here…” he admitted, a furious blush rushing to his cheeks. John leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before whirling around and opening the drawer. Just like he was promised, a bottle of lubricant was waiting for them.

 

John poured the gel onto his hand, leaning forward so his tongue flicked over Sherlock’s nipple as he slowly inserted one finger. Sherlock groaned, arching his back just slightly. It was enough for John’s cock to respond, reminding him that it was still there and in desperate need of attention. John moved his finger slowly, watching it disappear in and out of the younger male.

 

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he groaned, voice raspy with lust. “Every part of you. You’re perfect. So bloody perfect” He slipped a second finger inside of him, grazing gently over his prostate. Sherlock’s back arched a bit more, causing John to hold most of his weight. He didn’t mind. “And you’re all mine. I don’t know how, or why, but God, I’m glad” he slowly slid in the third finger, kissing down his ribs.

 

Sherlock was shaking in anticipation, muscles quivering for more, by the time John pulled his fingers out. He kissed up his jaw slowly, finally finding his lips and kissing him gently. This time, it was Sherlock who deepened it, needing to taste more of John. John didn’t break the kiss as he fumbled for the bottle and blindly slicked himself. He didn’t break the kiss as he lined himself up with Sherlock’s entrance. He didn’t break the kiss as he slowly pressed his hips forward.

 

He only broke the kiss when Sherlock threw his head back in a cry of pleasure as John finally entered him.

 

John was still supporting Sherlock’s weight, one arm wrapped around the small of his back, the other pressed to the back of the sofa to keep him balanced. John had originally planned to have _some sort_ of rhythm, but right now all he wanted was to hear more, more, _more_ of those luscious moans pouring past Sherlock’s lips. He’d never heard anything like it, even in the past when they’d had sex. He circled his hips with each thrust, causing another string of moans and curses to fall from Sherlock.

 

“ _John._ Fuck! Harder…Right there. _Yes. Oh…ohhh”_

 

In minutes, John’s tan skin was shining with sweat. He could feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine, coming a little closer each time Sherlock said his name.

 

He shifted just enough, making sure that each of his final thrusts would brush against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock cried out, nails clawing down slick skin. “Touch yourself.” John gasped, picking up speed, feeling the sting left behind from where Sherlock’s nails had been.

 

Sherlock obeyed. His back arched again, this time causing him to clench around John’s cock. John’s eyes rolled back with the movement. He slammed his hips forward. “Sherlock…I… _Sherlock..”_ Sherlock’s body clenched around him again as long, white ropes of come covered Sherlock’s chest and fist, leaving John speechless for a moment.

 

“ _Fuck. Sherlock!”_ He groaned, repeating his name as he came, filling him completely. He moved his hips just slightly, riding out his peak until he was positive Sherlock had milked him dry. Sherlock was already breathless, and it took every bit of John’s strength to move him so he was on the sofa completely. Slowly, the doctor stood to get a blanket. They would be staying on the sofa to recover – there was no way either of them were going to make it to the bedroom with legs that currently felt like jelly.

 

When he turned, Sherlock saw his back and pouted out his bottom lip. “I hurt you.”

 

John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, then remembered the feel of Sherlock’s nails raking down his back. A smile spread across his lips. “No. You didn’t, love. Besides, it goes with the black eye.” He pointed to his eye cheekily, causing the detective to huff. “We can just tell whoever sees me shirtless that Dickerson did it.”

 

Sherlock quickly sat up, green-grey eyes wide. “Shirtless? Who else is going to be seeing you shirtless?” John laughed as he grabbed the blanket, enveloping them both in it as he lowered himself back down on the sofa. “No one, love. You’re the only one that get to see me with my shirt off.” He promised, sealing it with a gentle kiss. He could feel Sherlock’s muscles relax with his words.

 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him in close. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to forget the less-than-good events of the evening and the throbbing that was starting to set in the left side of his face. “John?” Sherlock’s sleepy voice was deep, raspy, and a bit child-like. John couldn’t help but smile.

 

“Yes, my love?” He hummed, burying his face into the mop of chocolate curls that had nestled in his chest.

 

“Jealousy looks good on you.” Sherlock mumbled against his skin. John couldn’t help but smile, fingers dancing up and down his spine. He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

 

“I love you, Sherlock.”

 

“I love you too, John. I only love you.”

 

And with that, tangled together, they both fell asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are much appreciated! You can send any requests to consultingcurls.tumblr.com :) Thank you so much for reading, and I welcome any kind of constructive criticism!


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